Tell Him
by Kaelir of Lorien
Summary: The violin is the warning - the halting, aching struggle of tentative notes under the hands of Sherlock Holmes. With the death of Irene Adler, something has been fundamentally changed, and when John is confronted with the truth, his first words are the most important: "Tell him you're alive."
1. Part I

**Author's Note:** For a long time now, I've been intrigued by John's treatment of Sherlock in the interim between Irene's 'death' and reappearance, and his reaction to the Woman when she does return. I have never read it as the protest of a jealous boyfriend, but rather, the reaction of a man who cannot and will not allow the hurting of his friend to go unanswered.

This will be a two- or three-part story, more likely the latter. Thank you for taking a look, and enjoy. :)

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**Tell Him **

_Part I_

When the first strains of the violin drifted up the stairwell to the third floor, John knew there was something wrong.

He sat up slowly, using his elbows to prop himself up against the pillow, staring through the semi-darkness towards the door of his room. He'd left it partially ajar, as he knew he had to, and he didn't need to occasional incoming text from Mycroft to remind him of that—though they came anyway.

John was used to hearing his flatmate play at all hours; Sherlock's thought processes did not regulate themselves by night and day, and the violin helped him to concentrate. He pretended to be stubbornly uncaring about the fact that the music might just bother someone at one or two in the morning, but John had become wise enough to know that wasn't precisely the case; almost unfailingly, Sherlock would find a few moments the following day to regale the flat with one of John's favourite pieces—and coming from Sherlock Holmes, that was an eloquent apology.

But this, John thought, as he sat up a little straighter and shifted the sheets out from under his arm, this was not the usual Chopin or Bach that came in the early hours of the morning. There was something different here.

Sherlock retained a repertoire of music—classical, for the most part—that he knew perfectly and intimately, and it was one of these that was most often to be found reverberating around the second-floor flat at what John had termed 'the ungodly hours'. And though the music might be unwelcome, the sound itself was always smooth, mastered, and unhalting in its execution. Indifferent to the other occupants of the building, it carried on.

It was not such a sound that John was hearing now.

Instead, he was listening to a lone, poignant melody, and one that never seemed able to continue on for more than a few seconds before breaking abruptly into silence. There would come a pause, during which John almost didn't want to breathe, and only after an agonisingly long wait would the violin take up again—and more often than not, it would merely repeat, again and again, with minor variations in tune or tempo, as though both the instrument and its handler had reached some obstacle and couldn't, or wouldn't, go any further.

For a long while, John remained still, attention caught and held fast by the notes wafting uncertainly—so terribly uncertainly—from the sitting room below. In some ways, he hated himself for listening, because in all his time as Sherlock's flatmate he had never heard something so personal and yes, _emotional_, coming from the old violin. He had learned to recognise the smallest variations in his friend's speech and gesture, and yet this baffled him, not because he didn't understand where it was coming from, but because it was present at all.

He was listening to the sound of heartbreak, and even he was amazed that it could manifest itself so recognisably under the hands of Sherlock Holmes.

He was honest enough with himself to admit that he didn't understand the precise position that Irene Adler held in Sherlock's mind. She did not seem to be an object of desire—at least not in the usual sense, because Sherlock just didn't think that way. And yet, John was dead certain that his friend was intrigued, even captivated, by this very extraordinary woman, on a level that was far removed from notions of romantic attachment. She had, in some way, met him on a playing field that too often he occupied by himself, and she had challenged him, and he relished that, after his own fashion.

But whether it was love or something very different didn't really matter; what _did_ was that her death had done something to Sherlock, had gotten to his mind and his heart in a way that nothing, to John's knowledge, ever had before. And that was very, very hard to listen to.

Briefly, John considered going downstairs, but dismissed the idea after another moment of thought. What would it accomplish? Sherlock would not be talkative tonight, and at any rate, he was loathe to disturb one of the few emotional outlets that the detective allowed himself. No, he would do more harm than good if he approached his friend now.

So, with a long, soft sigh, the doctor let himself sink back against his pillow. He turned over, but remained awake for a long time, trying to pretend that he couldn't hear the violin's aching struggle one floor below.

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To be continued! As always, your thoughts are appreciated.


	2. Part II

**Author's Note: **And, home from London! Amazing trip, that, and completely worth every minute, so thanks all for being patient with me here. :)

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_Part II_

Sherlock was playing again the following morning, and John was still debating whether he should bring the subject up as he came down the stairs and into the sitting rom. He couldn't help but notice that the melody had at least made some progress over the course of the night, though whether or not this was a good thing remained up in the air.

He crossed over to the desk without saying anything, feeling Mrs Hudson circle around behind him as he reached for his jacket. It seemed to him that both their gazes settled onto the plate on the desk at the same moment—untouched, John noted with a quiet exhalation—and he exchanged a quick glance with the landlady that assured him she, too, was more than a little worried.

One look was all it took to know that he hadn't been the only one listening to the violin last night, and John could read his own expression mirrored in hers: _What do we do?—_and, more importantly: _Is there anything we _can_ do?_

But neither John nor Mrs Hudson tended to give up easily, and thought it might not do any good at all, they both made the necessary attempt.

"Lovely tune, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson remarked offhand as Sherlock's bow dropped and he turned to make a notation on the music stand nearby. She had removed the uneaten food from the desk and now bustled into the kitchen with it—still pretending to be only their landlady, going about her tasks without a fuss this time, encouraging Sherlock to think she was only a question in the background and yet all the while probing gently for answers. "Haven't heard that one before."

John was searching his friend's face for any sign of response, but there was none—only a pale mask of neutrality that was far too perfect to be convincing. He cleared his throat. "Composing?"

He tried to smile, at the very end, but couldn't manage because he was faking it, that light, casual tone. It was a one-word question, but he wondered if Sherlock was too distracted, too caught up in his own emotional confusion, to hear what else was behind it—the _Are you okay?_ and _I know you're not_ and _Please, just talk to me, just say _something. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or more concerned when he did get a reply.

"Helps me to think."

Four words, in an almost complete monotone, and distinctly lacking the definitive emphasis at the end to indicate the usual _Thinking; do not disturb_ attitude that Sherlock so often got. In fact, had it been anyone else, the response would have been considered civil and completely inoffensive, and John heard a warning tone go off in his head. This was very, very wrong.

He stared at the mirror for a few moments as he straightened his jacket, still stupidly trying to act as if nothing was wrong, and then wondering why he even bothered when Sherlock didn't even care enough to notice. They still hadn't gotten anywhere; he was going to have to be more direct. So he cleared his throat, fixed his eyes carefully on the floor, and pushed on, "What're you thinking about?"

For about a half a second, he thought he'd hit a dead end again—but then Sherlock whirled around, with a sudden sharpness that took him completely by surprise, the bow clunking carelessly from the violin strings as both objects were very nearly dropped onto the armchair nearby. John had the fleeting impression that some sort of intervention might be necessary, but then—

"The count on your blog," Sherlock said sharply, the words quick and intent as he pointed accusingly toward John's laptop, "is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five."

John blinked, frowned, and blinked again. _What the bloody hell...?_

"Er, yeah," he said aloud, playing along because honestly, what else was he supposed to do? "It's faulty; can't seem to fix it."

But Sherlock clearly seemed to think otherwise, thought he was _on_ to something. "Faulty," he repeated, with the air of someone noting the word merely for the record-keeping and not because it had any actual value, "or you've been hacked and it's a message."

John felt his insides sink a little at the pure intentness with which Sherlock said it, and part of him wanted very seriously to knock away the camera phone that was now being lifted between the detective's pale hands. He knew, he just _knew_, that this could not end well—that there was little chance that Irene Adler would have gone to this much trouble ins such an indirect way—but it was already too late to head his friend off now. He watched in silence as Sherlock punched four digits into the lock screen of the phone, and though he couldn't quite see which ones, he knew that they were.

_1-8-9-5—_

_WRONG._

Jaw clenched, Sherlock's eyes flicked upward again, his expression hardening into a wall of false indifference. "Just faulty."

_And I could've told you that,_ John thought, still trying to pretend for Sherlock's sake that he didn't understand what was going on in his friend's head, but with each passing minute he was finding himself more and more at a loss as to what he could do here. What he needed was for Sherlock to stop blocking him out, but that would mean admitting confusion and emotion and helplessness, and God forbid that any of those should sit hand-in-hand with the great consulting detective. Talk about keeping up appearances.

Only—it wasn't really working. They were spilling out of the cracks now, all those things, through the pale features and the unsteady hands and the untouched food and the barely-confident tones of the violin, and John could _see_ them.

"Right," he said softly. "Right."

And he turned away—but not before Sherlock did.


End file.
